If I go, I'm goin' crazy
by GorgeousGreyMatter
Summary: They've come a long way from wall-slamming and punches x-posted at Livejournal, AO3


"You're not helpless," says Deaton, but Stiles only scoffs, fingering the bruises still blooming around the contours of his wrists.

"Yeah, Doc, sure. You can tell that joke to my busted ribs. They could use a laugh." Deaton rolls his eyes and reaches out to grab Stiles's arm. He splays it out onto the table, and underneath the harsh fluorescent examination lights, the marks are a sickening shade of green and yellow.

"You know, you could heal this," says Deaton. He's firm, and it's a ridiculous thought, but Stiles thinks that Deaton actually believes what he's saying. When Stiles doesn't respond, the doctor doesn't seem fazed. He doesn't let go of Stiles's arm either, but he lays his other palm against Stiles's skin and when Stiles looks up, the doctor's eyes are closed, as if he's concentrating hard.

So, is something supposed to happen, or…?" The grip on his arm tightens, and Stiles only sputters, "Jeez, sorry," before something actually really does happen.

The light bulb above Stiles's head flickers and pops right before it shatters into a million pieces.

"Jesus fucking Christ, dude," says Stiles, brushing shards of glass out of his shaggier-than-normal hair. "While that was exciting and so enjoyable, I don't feel any—" Deaton scoffs again (it seems to be a thing he does whenever Stiles opens his mouth) and releases his iron grip on Stiles's forearm.

It's healed. All of it. And Deaton, well, he looks smug to say the least.

"Teach me," he says, and for once, there's no joke and no punch line. "Teach me everything."

/

He doesn't expect to use what he's learned so soon. He's not—he hasn't practiced all that much. Paper cuts, match burns, scratches. Surface stuff. And it makes him tired, so tired.

But when you look down and there's blood everywhere, and it's your blood and it's oozing and there's bones in places there aren't normally, well there isn't really time to mince words or cut corners or split hairs, and _Christ, _he's dizzy.

"Do it, Stiles," says Derek. And Derek's eyes aren't anything like Stiles has ever seen. They're so dark, like liquid iron. But maybe that's the hemorrhage talking. "_Please_. Take what you need."

That's the thing about whatever this is—the science magic whatever. That's the rub, the catch 22. That's what Einstein was getting at, right? Energy, it can't be created or destroyed. Nothing's free. There's a cost.

"I could kill you," he murmurs. Derek is gripping him so hard that Stiles can't even think straight. "You could die. I could fuck up."

"Stiles, do it. Now."

And so he does. He shuts his eyes and that's it. He takes it all, everything Derek gives.

"_Please."_

_/_

When Stiles wakes up, he's not in his own bed. That, he can tell. It's dark and he can't see anything, and he panics for a second, filled with the choking memory of his own blood and guts falling out of him as if he were a busted-up party piñata. But when he does a quick inventory—his limbs, his skin, his head, it's all there, it's fine. The only thing he feels is exhaustion, the kind that runs deep in the bones and turns him all languid and heavy.

"You shouldn't try to move," a voice growls.

"Derek?" is all Stiles manages to say, more like croak, because his throat is as dry as a desert. Like he's swallowed fistfuls of gravel. But it doesn't matter, nothing matters, because Derek is there and Stiles is there, too, and they're both alive and okay and breathing.

And he didn't kill Derek.

He didn't kill him.

"I'm so sorry," Stiles sputters, and okay, when did the crying happen? "I'm sorry. I could have killed you. I didn't mean…"

"Stiles," says Derek, "Stiles."

"I'm sorry, I know I'm not worth—"

Derek's eyes flash red and Stiles stops talking. He's not scared, not, you know, _of Derek._ But the expression on Derek's face—it's enough to stop him cold.

"I needed you to be okay."

"But—"

"No," says Derek, and that's all. Stiles knows that the conversation is over. Because Stiles, Stiles is pack, and it's Derek's job to take care of them all, no matter what. Stiles thinks he understands now.

"You would do anything for us," he mumbles, "wouldn't you?"

"Yes," says Derek, and it's so quiet that Stiles barely hears him, even though the room is silent as a grave, "Anything."

And when Derek leaves the room, his hand lingering over Stiles's collarbone, he thinks that maybe Derek isn't just talking about pack.

/

Stiles doesn't notice it at first, not for a few days at least. He's got other things on his mind, after all. But then he realizes it—sees them—Derek's fucking Betas, following him around like, well, like _dogs_. Seriously. They were always just there, lurking underfoot, thinking they were being so sneaky about it, too.

"I swear to God, Scott," says Stiles, "I should make them wear bells." Erica has just appeared seemingly out of nowhere, just as he and Scott had left the locker rooms and headed for the parking lot after practice.

Scott just laughs at him, snickers, really.

"Don't laugh at my pain, McCall," he pouts.

"It's not my fault you pissed Derek off," says Scott. I've told you for like, _ever_, to stay away from him."

"Hey. I didn't do any—" Well, there was the almost dying thing, but Scott didn't really know about that yet, and Stiles didn't feel like explaining how his near-death experience had turned Derek into an overprotective, moody asshole.

"Nevermind," says Stiles. "Let's just not talk about it."

"Cool," says Scott (and really, thinks Stiles, he still sometimes manages to be surprised by Scott's complete and utter obliviousness).

"You would be so dead without me, Scott. It's almost—it's just absurd," he mutters.

"Hey!" Scott protests. Stiles rolls his eyes, knowing Scott's just going to pout until they get to Deaton's office. Seriously, Stiles is such a good friend. He should be getting a medal, a stipend. Full dental. Something.

"See you later," says Scott as he scrambles out of the passenger seat, barely giving Stiles a backwards glance.

"Thanks, Stiles. You're a great friend, Stiles. I would do anything you asked me to because that's how much I owe you for my very existence, Stiles," he mutters.

He drives in silence the rest of the way.

/

When he gets home, he's alone. His dad has the night shift for the rest of the week, and it's not like he isn't used to coming home to an empty house. He spends an hour doing his homework, and he's just about to break out his Xbox when he remembers the flash of blonde hair, the leather jacketed figure he saw slinking outside the house as he pulled into the driveway.

Stiles takes a quick glance outside, noting the ominously dark clouds overhead. Pulling out his phone, he types a quick text: "What do you want on your pizza?" and clicks "send to Isaac."

There's no reply, but within minutes, there's a head peeking through his open window (which, seriously, when did he institute an open-window policy on werewolves?).

"I don't think _he_ would like it," says Isaac. He looks sheepish and Stiles thinks that if there's anyone Derek can trust completely, it's Isaac, because is there anyone this kid isn't fiercely loyal to?

"It's going to rain," Stiles says, "and, no one likes the smell of wet dog." At that, Isaac snarls, but it's half-hearted at best, and he climbs gracefully inside.

"Can we get pepperoni?"

"Sure, pup," says Stiles, smiling. "Whatever you want."

/

Having witnessed the wondrous and somewhat disgusting werewolf metabolism, Stiles orders enough pizza to feed a small village. Which was obviously the right thing to do, because in less than an hour, Isaac eats almost two whole pizzas by himself. Plus breadsticks. An entire order.

"Jesus Christ, dude. Does Derek even feed you?"

Isaac shrugs, "It's not like we have a lot of family dinners or anything."

Stiles doesn't say anything in response to that. He just hands Isaac one of his Xbox controllers. "Left 4 Dead 2?"

Isaac does the shrugging thing again. "Never played it."

At that, Stiles chuckles, because a werewolf killing zombies? The jokes literally write themselves.

/

They play for awhile, but it's pretty much a lost cause. Isaac may have super-werewolf reflexes, but he's terrible at video games. Stiles says as much.

Isaac huffs indignantly. "Well it's not like I had a lot of time for practice when I spent my evenings locked in a freezer."

There's a long, awkward, stilted pause.

"Dude," says Stiles. "_Dude."_

This probably shouldn't be funny, but Isaac is smiling because he actually made a sort-of-joke, albeit a fucked up one, but a joke all the same. And suddenly, they're both just convulsing with laughter. Stiles is almost 100% sure he's going to vomit. They're both still grinning like idiots by the time they manage to stop laughing.

Isaac is beaming. He leans in close to him, and yeah, okay, he's definitively smelling him, but obviously it's nothing bad, because Isaac just hums happily before reaching for the last slice of pizza.

"Why do you guys always do that?"

"Do what?" Isaac asks.

"Smell me. Some people might think that's…weird."

"You smell good," says Isaac. "Like Derek. Like pack."

"Like Derek?" Stiles sputters. Isaac nods, but he doesn't seem concerned about it. He doesn't seem bothered or weirded out at all.

"So, are you going to tell me why he makes you guys follow me around?"

Isaac doesn't say anything, which Stiles guesses is an answer in itself.

"I can take care of myself, you know. I know that you guys all think I'm just that weak, annoying human that follows you around and gets into trouble. But I'm not," he says quietly.

"I know that," says Isaac. "And so does Derek."

"Oh," says Stiles. Because for once in his life, he really has no idea what to say. They spend the rest of the evening in food comas on the couch, the t.v. rumbling in the background.

Isaac falls asleep, and sure, maybe he's not the best guard-wolf, but he's probably definitely Stiles's favorite. And yeah, okay, he feels weirdly guilty about that, but whatever. Before he goes upstairs to bed, he throws a blanket over Isaac and switches off all the lights. The house is completely dark, but Stiles's doesn't feel scared at all.

/

He sleeps well for the first time in weeks. Maybe it's Isaac, maybe it's not, but when Stiles wakes up he feels well rested. Comfortable. Content.

Until he goes downstairs, where apparently all hell has broken loose.

His dad and Isaac are standing off in his living room.

"Son, is…is there a reason Isaac here is _growling _at me?"

"Uh, um, well," says Stiles, "he has a condition." At that, Isaac glares at Stiles. "No, I don't."

"Yes, he does. Very serious. Needs to be looked at, like, _right now_." He grabs Isaac by the elbow and yanks him out the door.

"Bad wolf," he growls. "Very, very bad wolf."

"I smelled a gun," Isaac whines, rubbing his arm like Stiles had actually hurt him. Yeah, like that could ever actually happen.

"Yeah, duh. My dad's the sheriff. They usually have guns. It's kind of required."

Isaac does that thing where he looks like a puppy that got kicked in the face. It's totally not fair how well he pulls it off.

"I mean, I just—I'm still trying to keep this whole werewolf thing on the DL, and you wolfing out in my living room and almost eating my dad is not the way to keep this secret under wraps."

"Why don't you just tell him? I mean, this is his town. He's the sheriff. It's not like he doesn't have his suspicions."

"I don't want him to get hurt. I can't—"Stiles just shakes his head because there's nothing else really to say about it. Stiles needs his father to be okay. He can't lose him. He can't be alone like that. He's not strong, not like Derek or Isaac, who have both lost so many people; they're probably used to it by now.

"Stiles," and at that, he gets pulled out of his own head, which is probably a good thing, because it was starting to feel like a little like drowning in there.

"Let's just go to school, okay?"

"Sure," says Stiles. "Okay."

/

That night it's not Isaac who vaults through Stiles's window. It's Derek, and he doesn't even speak at first. He just sits on the edge of the bed and watches him for what feels like hours.

"So, you're taking this stalking thing to a whole new and interesting level," says Stiles from over his shoulder. He refuses to look at Derek, because that's just something he can't handle right now, so he keeps his eyes glued firmly to his computer screen.

"Your dad's not home," Derek says.

"That's mighty observant of you," mutters Stiles.

Derek snarls. He obviously doesn't appreciate the snarkiness. "_What's your problem_?"

To be honest, Stiles's is so irritated that he almost doesn't answer, but Derek is so stupidly oblivious sometimes, well, it's hard to just let that kind of thing slide.

"My _problem?_ My problem is that I haven't had a fucking second to myself in days. I mean, Christ, can you just call off your dogs, please?"

"I can't," says Derek.

"And why is that? Is there some other big bad that I don't know about? Another alpha pack? Scott not being the loyal sidekick you'd hoped?" And yeah, he's not even trying to be his normal, pithy self anymore, but right now Stiles is tired. He's just _done_. "Haven't I proven myself yet?"

"That's not—" Derek starts. Stiles doesn't listen, because he just doesn't want to.

"Just leave me alone, Derek." He doesn't say anything, not at first, and when Stiles turns in his chair to look at him, he's expecting some kind of violent response. He expects him to be furious.

He's not though. He just looks sad. It's that same look Derek had in his eyes that night.

"Derek?" he asks, because he needs to know. He has to. "Why are you here?"

"Because I have to be," is all Derek says. And at that, Stiles makes this disgusted sound, because honestly, what does that even mean?

"Well, no one's twisting your arm to make you stay here, trust me." and yeah, he's a little angry, a little bitter, but Stiles thinks he has a right to be.

Derek huffs. "I can't leave you alone." And he says it like it's something obvious, like Stiles is the stupid one for not getting it. Stiles is still stuck on the part where he's trying to understand what there is to get in the first place.

"I know your primary forms of communication are growling and subtext, but can you just—"

Derek shakes his head as if that settles the matter, skulking toward the window, and Stiles is left wondering why he can't just _say it_.

And yeah, in retrospect, grabbing the arm of a snarly alpha wolf is probably isn't one of his best ideas, but Stiles does it anyway, even though he can't even get his fingers wrapped all the way around Derek's stupidly muscular forearm. Truthfully, he's fully expecting to lose a couple of fingers on his right hand for this, but that's not at all what happens.

When skin meets skin, it feels a little like that time Stiles stuck his finger in an electrical socket when he was six. It floors him for a second or so, sending a tingly trail of gooseflesh shooting up his arm. It crawls up inside his shoulder blades, making him shudder. It leaves him floating and warm, like his whole body is humming. But there's an undercurrent of loss. Something that's left him wanting.

And Derek, he makes this sound, a whine, barely audible. And when Stiles meets his eyes, they're fully shifted, flashing red, but it's not anger because it feels entirely like something else.

"Oh," Stiles breathes. And okay, wow, that's a tone of voice he's never heard come out of his own mouth before, all needy and breathless and _fuck_.

Derek actually does kind of growl at him, but then he's leaping out the window like the super-stealthy ninja-wolf that he is, and Stiles just stands there in his bedroom like a fucking idiot.

And he feels weird, kind of drunk, like the drunk he gets from drinking those fruity blended drinks that Lydia makes at pack meetings because it's not like anyone else there can feel anything from it.

And.

Oh god.

_He's in love with Derek._

Stiles Stilinksi, perpetual spaz, is _in love_ with Derek Hale.

Stiles Stilinksi and the emotionally retarded werewolf.

He might as well be the next Harry Potter.

"Fuck," says Stiles to himself. "_Fuck_."

_/_

He goes to see Deaton, finally, after days of pretty much 24/7 freaking out. Because he's in love with Derek Hale and possibly, you know, _broke_ him or something. He doesn't even really have a preamble when he bursts into the doc's office after closing time.

"I think I screwed up when I used Derek's wolfy-ness to heal myself. I think I did something to him. I broke him or something, because he's acting all weird like he, well I don't know, all overprotective, and irritating, and extra growly, which, okay, isn't all that weird when it comes to me, but—"

"_Stiles_," says Deaton finally, slipping his name in right as he had to pause in his speech to take several gasping breaths. He's pretty sure he's hyperventilating. "Calm down. You're going to pass out."

"Right, okay," says Stiles, and sure, maybe he might have accidentally double-dosed on his Adderall, but he's had a lot to think about these past couple of days, and he couldn't help it. He kept getting distracted by the memory of all those fuzzy, warm feelings and _jesus, when did he become such a girl?_

"Just tell me what's going on," says Deaton, in that way that he does that somehow manages to make everyone around him feel ridiculously at ease. So Stiles tells him everything. About nearly dying, and almost-maybe-accidentally-nearly killing Derek, how Stiles had managed to knit his own bones back together (which, totally awesome in the objective sense), about the Betas that were following him around like baby ducklings.

About Derek. About when they touched.

"So, that's not good right? I mean, for Derek? Did I accidentally magic-mojo him or something?"

And Stiles is genuinely worried about Derek, so it's more than a little insulting that Deaton is sitting there _smiling_ at him.

"I'm sorry, I thought you were supposed to, you know, help people? Fix things? Offer sage advice. So.._advise me_."

Deaton shakes his head. "There's nothing to fix. It's not even classifiable as a problem unless you think it is. It's just the effects of the bond."

"Excuse me, but…the bond?" Stiles asks tentatively. "Like, the magic-y, heal-y bond?"

Deaton just grins. "No, the bond between mates. It's not something that can be created. If it's happening now, it's always been there, and your magic has just jumpstarted the process."

Stiles has pretty much read everything there is to know about wolves since Scott got the bite. Wolves are pretty much the pinnacle of serial monogamy.

So if Derek is, you know, his… mate, thing, whatever, it means…he's stuck with Stiles for…

Well, for a long time.

Unless Stiles dies tragically young or whatever. Which, you know, hopefully _no._

Christ.

He doesn't really remember what happens after that. Everything is sort of a blur, from his stumbling into the jeep, pulling out of parking lot, somehow getting on the random stretches of dirt road that wind through the forest just outside of Beacon Hills.

He guesses he shouldn't really be surprised when he ends up in front of the Hale house. It looks better now, now that it's been redone, finally, after years of Derek just moping around in it.

Honestly, where else was he going to go?

/

"What are you doing here, Stiles?" says Derek. Of course he's waiting for him right inside by the door. It's not like Stiles was actually expecting to surprise him, to have any sort of advantage in this totally awkward confrontation.

"So I guess the stalking thing only goes one way?" Stiles asks. He's got his arms crossed and he's trying to maintain the whole "I'm-not-scared-at-all-thing" he's been working on, but it's totally pointless and not working in the slightest. He's nervous. Totally nervous, and he bets that his heart is beating faster than a jackrabbit's, and Derek can totally tell.

"You shouldn't be here," he says, and he looks uncomfortable, like Stiles's very presence is causing him physical pain.

"It's pretty fucked up you know," says Stiles.

"What?" says Derek, his eyes narrowing, and it's an expression Stiles has seen him give the Betas hundreds of time. Isaac calls it Derek's "_Don't fuck with me or I'll eat you" _face.

"That you were never going to tell me. That I had to find out from _Deaton_, which, embarrassing by the way, thank you for that, and—"

"_Stiles_." Derek looks at him like he's going to explode. That vein above his left eyebrow is doing that weird twitchy thing it always does when Erica says something stupid, or Scott fucks up, or when Stiles does something even worse like almost die. But Stiles, he can't stop talking, because if he does, that means Derek's going to talk and _holy shit_ Stiles is so not ready for that.

"And mates, not exactly what I was expecting, I mean it's not like it hasn't been horrifying enough that you look like you and I...I'm me, and this means you have to be stuck with me, which, I apologize for that—"

"_Stiles."_

"And Deaton said that it couldn't be fixed, but I mean, I can do research, there's books, I'm sure of it I can fix this, I know I can, so you don't—"

He's expecting to hear his name again, expecting Derek to be like, _this close _to ripping his throat out, but when he looks up, Derek's just staring at him. And Stiles thinks he looks…he looks hurt.

And, wow, what does that even mean? Because yeah, Stiles has always known that he's had, you know, _feelings_, concerning Derek. It's just a fact that he's lived with, and accepted, and he'd fully come to terms with having to keep those _feelings _buried deep down inside like every other dysfunctional young adult. He was okay with that…sort of.

But this, this was—this was way out of left field.

Derek…_wants him_.

Oh.

"What happens to you if I refuse?"

"Nothing," says Derek, but Stiles can tell he's not saying everything. Because that can't be everything.

"There isn't anyone else for you, is there? If I said no, you'd just—"

"Stop," says Derek, who won't even look at him, even though Stiles is just talking and talking and talking. "I don't—I can't."

"You'd wait forever, wouldn't you? Because there isn't—"

"No one else," says Derek finally. Derek won't even meet his eyes as he says it. It's weird, seeing Derek in Stiles's normal position of confusion and complete and utter mortification.

"Derek," Stiles murmurs.

"Don't," growls Derek. "Please, don't."

"I'm not going to say no. I don't want to say no," says Stiles, who's edging closer to Derek, who's still sitting on the edge of the couch and it's like there's this growing chasm between them.

"You don't know what you're saying. You don't know what it means," says Derek.

"I know that I want you," says Stiles. He doesn't think he's been more sure of anything in his entire life. "I want you to—" And they're so close now, Stiles thinks he could count every one of Derek's eyelashes, the pale freckles on his nose that he'd never even noticed before.

"I want you to have me," says Stiles, and it's shocking, even to himself, how much he means it, reaching out to trail his fingertips across Derek's face—Derek, who goes still underneath his hands, like he's afraid to breath. And Stiles, he feels like he's definitely the lamb in this lion scenario, because he's sure that Derek is trying so hard not to move, do anything to scare Stiles off, hurt him.

They've come a long way from wall-slamming and punches.

Stiles hovers over him, halfway in Derek's lap, and he takes the man's face in his hands like it's something precious, because it is.

"You're shaking," says Derek, his voice muffled and pleading, and it's not something Stiles ever expected from Derek. That kind of vulnerability. But Derek, Stiles guesses he's just as broken as they all are. Probably more. And Stiles, well, Stiles just wants to put them both back together.

"Duh," says Stiles, but he's smiling as he says it, beaming, because he needs Derek to know that this is exactly what he wants. This is exactly what they both need. "And, I would like it a lot of you kissed me now," he says, "please."

Derek breathes out and it almost sounds like a laugh.

"Congratulations, Sourwolf, I think we found…" and Stiles doesn't get the chance to fully congratulate Derek on the unexpected discovery of his sense of humor because Derek's mouth is suddenly on his and frankly, it's _awesome_.

It's not like Stiles has a lot of experience with things like kissing, but Derek obviously does, because as far as first kisses go, it's fucking great.

Derek's tongue is magic, he decides, especially as Derek licks into his mouth, his fingers digging into his hip, the back of his neck, worrying at Stiles's bottom lip with his teeth. Stiles is already a vocal person anyway, so he doesn't think he should be held responsible for any of the slightly mortifying noises that come out of his mouth. Derek, to his credit, doesn't seem to mind. In fact, he answers Stiles's whimpers and moans with a growl deep in his throat that makes Stiles feel achy and needy and too big for his own skin, all at once.

"Derek," he says, pleads, his hands fisting in Derek's t-shirt, "_too many clothes." _

And Derek doesn't even stop kissing him to take care of the whole clothes thing, because Stiles feels claws—_claws—_sliding down his back and his shirt is suddenly in tatters. "Hey," he whines against Derek mouth, "I liked that shirt. Darkwing Duck is cool."

"Shut up, Stiles," Derek snarls (_and there he is_, _the Derek he recognizes) _and he's yanking off his own jacket and shirt and Stiles's jeans and tossing it all on the floor. And Stiles can barely breathe, his breath coming all hot and enraged through his nostrils because he's starving himself from air just to keep kissing Derek over and over and over again. And…

"Stiles, you have to calm down, you have to fucking _be quiet_," Derek breathes, nuzzling the strip of flesh behind Stiles's ear.

"Sorry, right, because I'll pass out and that wouldn't be very sexy or enjoyable at all," Stiles stammers, because he's finding it's difficult to concentrate as Derek licks and sucks at every bit of exposed flesh he can find. Stiles's whole body thrums like the bass at that night club they'd found Danny at, when Stiles's heart had sputtered and faltered desperately as it tried to align itself to the beat.

"No," says Derek desperately, mouthing at Stiles's hipbone, not moving even an inch when Stiles gasps and bucks up against Derek's lips, "Because it's driving me _crazy." _ At that he just wants to laugh, and he does, but it's nervous laughter, because honestly Stiles still feels like this all might be some kind of cosmic joke. But he looks into Derek's eyes, and for all the self-restraint the alpha had previously claimed to have, Stiles can see that rapturous, hungry gleam in them, tinged red, and it makes him feel sort of… beautiful, and desired. So, when Derek's eyes pass over him, he lets him look, lets him know that he's his and his alone, and that Stiles's skin is his for the touching, the tasting. And when that gaze falls on his face, Stiles meets Derek's eyes head on, even though he desperately wants to look away, to hide, to crawl inside of himself and never ever come out again.

"Stay with me, okay?" Derek whispers into the hollow of Stiles's shoulder, biting at the delicate flesh stretched thin across his collarbone. Stiles just groans and surges back against him, rushing with the immediacy of a freight train. He feels Derek's body wrench underneath him as he leans up to taste the saltiness of his ear lobe with his teeth, feeling a deep satisfaction when the werewolf hisses out his name. "Stiles, I want—"

"Yeah, yes, _anything_, god, just—" Stiles repositions himself a little ungracefully on top of Derek and lets his legs come around his waist until his heels rest against the small of his back. The new angle is torture for them both, and Derek is so painfully hard against Stiles's stomach, and Stiles's is hard too and so close to coming it isn't really funny at all.

Like, _at all_.

Somehow Derek gets them off the couch, and Stiles just clings to him, because he's the only thing real in Stiles's world right now. He feels so heavy and drunk with it all, and all he can see, hear, feel is the man in front of him—Derek, whose hands feel so strong and good and right, touching him all over.

Derek's bed smells just like him: earth, trees, and soft leather, and Stiles's sighs happily when he feels the cool, soft sheets against his flushed, heated skin. Derek is above him, their bodies slotting together like puzzle pieces and, and they just _fit_, and it's perfect.

"Do you feel that?" Stiles gasps against Derek's mouth. Whatever it is between them, it feels like some kind of thread, golden and heavy, so tangled it can't ever be undone by anything. It feels permanent. Unbreakable.

"You're mine," says Derek breathlessly. "That's what it feels like."

And this isn't ever what Stiles could have imagined sex to be like, especially with Derek. It isn't rushed or violent. The wolf's touch is so _reverent_ as he takes him apart with lips and teeth, tongue and fingers, swallowing every whimper and moan, answering in turn.

"I _need_—" Stiles cries brokenly, bucking against Derek's fingers as he works him open.

"I know, I know, I know," Derek murmurs, one hand gripping Stiles's hip in a bruising hold, his fingertips curled into the soft flesh.

And Stiles comes with Derek inside of him, with Derek's hand under his chin, falling headfirst into the eyes of his wolf.


End file.
